


high-rise cigarettes

by inertial



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inertial/pseuds/inertial
Summary: We don't know how to talk about our problems like the adults do.





	high-rise cigarettes

 

[ **high-rise cigarettes** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFIzLovJdiQ)

_Daehyun/Youngjae, Youngjae POV_

 

 

A year ago, I picked up smoking. I can somewhat see why you like it. To twiddle that thin roll of paper between your fingers must remind you of the worn-out pens you bite on while you're writing. Apart from that little quirk, I can't say I'm fond of it. All that nicotine burns the insides of my head out my nose and the taste of tabacco makes me think my mouth's bleeding. It chews so nastily into my jaw and rots away at my teeth, but the concept of cigarettes on a high-rise balcony is nice—overlooking the town with that stick in hand, the passers-by throwing you dirty looks while you commit suicide slowly. I wonder if you ever wanted to scribble on my skin with the lit end of your cigarettes while you fucked me into the bed.

You are so ridiculously cliched, carrying around that tattered notebook in your breast pocket because you think inspiration's a breath of fresh air. We met again two months ago when you moved in around then, you getting your usual espresso double shot at the coffee shop with your laptop in hand. Cardigan, plain tee, slim-fit jeans. It's stunning how you look so annoying and attractive at the same time. You were genuinely surprised to see me but you didn't have to fake it even while I said I lived in the neighbourhood—opposite you, actually.

Did you itch to write in that notebook I gave you? It must be hard for your smiles to be so plastic as we exchanged pleasantries. Talking about rent, talking about traffic, talking about weather. I said I read your new novel and liked it. You smiled as sweet as coffee and said your girlfriend was the inspiration. Funny, it almost felt angry with the way you wrote, how your protagonist puts up with this gorgeous slut that fucks everything up—always late, can't be bothered, just so wrong. How you couldn't even find a better way to hide that you were writing about our fights.

We're bitter lovers turned pretend friends, like a bad habit that feels so good. It's a pity we weren't more healthy for each other. You liked concepts. You liked well-arranged photographs and aesthetic thoughts. I was a pretty face that'd be perfect for an artist's muse in an interview, so you wasted no time reeling me in. I played the role of your boyfriend and somewhere along the way, you wanted more from me. It seemed like I didn't fulfill the concept you wanted well, but I guess it wasn't just that, else you would have tossed me aside with the flick of a wrist. Did you love me, Daehyun? Was that why I was harder to forget than your other exes, that you moved an hour away from your workplace to here? It must have been difficult for you to need something out of someone, not receive it, yet embarrassingly still need him.

Underneath that well-crafted image of an author who wrote romance in cold cities, you were nothing but a petty child. You got upset if I didn't like your favourite movies. You took offense when we didn't agree on the same things. You especially hated it when I talked to other men—but unlike in your bestsellers, you only knew passive-aggressive words and sulking. Dig deeper until you finally show that you're mad, and that you want me to be just as upset. I should have listened to the tabloids where your exes, vindicated by your fans and the media as disillusioned, dished out the gossip on you being a far cry from your heartthrob image.

A year ago, I started drinking coffee. It's not to my liking with the bitterness but I can somewhat see why you enjoy it. That strong flavour won't let go of what you did as you stay up through the night. These are the compounds of you. You're all caffeine and cigarettes that leave that horrible aftertaste no one can forget. Bruise the lips, scrape the throat, down into the lungs.

I'm no saint, I admit. It's a nightmare to put two children together. But let's not talk about me. How does your girlfriend like the scars I left over your back? You used to grab my clawing hands off you and pin them onto the mattress, blue left on my wrists as a cheap souvenier. I breathed in nicotine from your lungs when I kissed you and you wrote of secondhand suicide. Just a little squeal from me at your presents can make you smile like an idiot all day. Really, did you love me so much to move here just to spite me? It's hilarious how often you're on the balcony with your girlfriend. Love me or hate me, you can't let go of me.

I'm pretty. You're handsome. We're both petty and don't know how to talk about our problems like adults do.

It's another Tuesday night where you'd gush in poetry about yesterday in a dream. Behind me, the house clogs with burnt coffee beans and tobacco smoke. You're on your balcony, kissing your girlfriend against the railings. I almost feel bad for hoping both of you fall. You may have gotten yourself a girl instead but you must be daft if you think I haven't noticed how similar we look. You can't forget me.

You love it, don't you? You must be so smug now, thinking the cigarettes are because of you. That the coffee breath is all because of you. It is, but I'll never tell you that.

"Yongguk," I wheeze as the nicotine tears apart my throat. "Can you come out here for a while?"

It's so natural to smile as he winds his arms around my waist, pressing my back into his chest. He kisses up my neck but not hard enough, the hickeys fading from my back. 

"What's on your mind, baby?"

I haven't introduced you to him since it's only been a month since we met. He's seven years older with a deep voice and inky tattoos all over. He's an artist as well—an indie musician who loves the avant-garde and all things bossa nova. He loves coffee and cigarettes too.

Best of all, he fucks me just as hard as you do and leaves me limping every morning.

"The scenery is lovely, isn't it?"

He has his cup of coffee ready on the table and nicotine stained all over his teeth. He laughs lowly and drags his tongue over my skin, imprinting another month's worth of overdue coffee.

"I don't think you'd find it as nice if you noticed the couple eating off each other's faces."

You finally glance over and freeze, staring with those large almond eyes I've always sickeningly adored. I whimper softly as Yongguk presses himself harder against me, fingers dancing along my bathrobe.

"But that's the best part," I whisper, raising my hand for him to take a drag from my cigarette. He kisses me and I wonder if I'll be your next novel again.

 


End file.
